Free For the Taking
by LoveTheBoyWithTheBread
Summary: Tannidy Requiesence, female tribute for District 3, is more than just a little bit broken.  Participating in the 74th Hunger Games might make her whole, but it would be like giving herself away. Oneshot written for the Starvation Forum. BROKEN.


**A/N-Written for the Starvation Forum's monthly oneshot challenge. This month's prompt: Broken.**

**Disclaimer-I do not own The Hunger Games.**

**Enjoy :)!  
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The simple fact of the matter is this: I am not ready for these Games.

That pretty much sums up the last two years of my life. When I was 12, I wasn't ready for the Games, but that wasn't much of a surprise. I mean, what 12-year-old is? Then I wasn't ready again at 13. At 14, I still wasn't ready. But I'm 14 now, and I'm standing in a lavish room in the Capitol, surrounded by Capitol citizens who have made it their life's work to make District 3 Tributes superficially ready for the Games, and I'm still not prepared. I'll never be prepared. Not that I have a chance, but even if I won, I still wouldn't be ready to take on that responsibility. Even if I lived to be 100, I still wouldn't be ready to live-or, more likely, not live-through something as catastrophic as the Hunger Games.

"Tannidy, chin up!" Cleotopha, one of the ladies in my prep team, shouts at me. It's amazing how she can make a voice so squeaky still sound like a bark. I doggedly stick my chin higher in the air, but the sad truth is that even that small movement requires a lot of effort. I'm weak, and I know it. I'm underfed, sickly, probably with some sort of bone cancer. My family just can't afford care. But even if we could, I have a feeling that I would still have problems.

Reddina walks into the room with her head held high and a gray cape flowing out from her shoulders, meshing in with her chrome-colored hair. My prep team steps away from me instantly, and with a flick of her wrist, Reddina successfully clears them out of the room. She looks me over critically. The dress that the prep team put me in for my interviews is covered in padding; a last-ditch effort to make me seem like a contender.

"Miss Requiesence," Reddina says formally, her hands behind her back. She is looking at me through her nose, which I find very demeaning, but I suppose I deserve it. "What is your interview angle?"

"Cute, shy, innocent," I croak. My throat is sore and my glands are swollen. I have some sort of cold, or allergies or something. I sound more like a demon and less like the little angel my mentor decided I would try for.

She says nothing as she approaches me. I jerk back in shock as she tears a sleeve off my dress, then proceeds to rip it in seemingly-random places. The tearing of the fabric scrapes against my ears, and it hurts my brain so much that tears spring into my eyes.

"You are one broken little child," she says pityingly. "That is your new angle, girl; broken. Use it."

I look up at her, wondering if she could possibly be serious. I decide that she is, and as she turns to leave the room, her lips quirk up in a smile. This makes me smile myself, even though it hurts my cheeks. I have a real interview angle! It's enough to actually be excited about.

I could use this, I really could. I would get the pity vote. Anyone who has a sick relative or friend, anyone who has ever felt useless, anyone who isn't completely _whole _could identify with me.

Dragging myself over to the mirror, I let the tears come into my eyes again; it isn't hard. "I've never felt whole," I whimper to the reflective glass, my voice breaking more than once. "My whole life, I've just been pieces waiting to be put together!"

"And what would you be if you won the Games?" I jump when I hear the voice, squeaky and deep at the same time; I boy trying to impersonate the Capitol accent. More specifically, Raccond trying to impersonate Caesar Flickerman.

I smile a little, looking at my district partner rather than my own reflection. "Oh, I know that winning would just fill up the hole inside of me! If I became Victor, I would never feel broken again!"

Raccond spares me a smile, but his eyes dart back and forth. "That's all the time we have..." he says, trailing off. He is probably one of the smartest people I've ever met, even living in a district for brainiacs, but he doesn't have very many people skills.

"Thank you," I say, my voice cracking again. I sound terrible, which I suppose will work out perfectly for my interview.

He shrugs, as if he doesn't know why I'm thanking him. "I thought your angle was going to be innocent, not world-weary."

I look down, a little sheepishly, then look back up and meet his eyes. "Broken."

He nods, because he is from District 3, and he understands what it's like to be broken.

"Still going for smart?" I ask him, then stifle a yawn. The day has exhausted me already.

"It's all I've got," he says, holding out his hands as if in offering. And that's what it is, isn't it? Offering up his last vestige of humanity to the Capitol. The very thing that makes Raccond _himself, _being given freely for the taking. All one would need to give up in order to possess him would be a little bit of money, just a sponsorship, and they will have freely bought him, even if he is doomed by fate to die.

Raccond leaves the room, and I take a shaky step backwards, lean myself up against the mirror, and slide down it until I'm slouched on the soft carpet, my legs twisted uncomfortably underneath me. Not that any position is comfortable for me anymore.

I'll sleep now, because soon I will have to go up in front of all of Panem, and present the broken fragments of myself out to the Capitol, hoping that someone will want to buy a piece of me, gambling towards the small hope that I might one day be more than just pieces.

Which presents me with a question: would I rather be a whole entity, only not in possession of myself, or scattered pieces that might never make up a whole, but will always belong to me?

Honestly, I'm not ready to give up my pieces.

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**A/N-Reviews are fabulous; I would love to know what you think!**


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